THE WILD GOOSE CHASD.
SIxteenthly; then beloved, it is so,
Out of John Calvin's Reliques Poets grow;
Who, when their Pulpit plots are out of date,
With Puny Ballads will infest the State.
As Nessus when's approaching Fate he spy'd,
Resolv'd to do some mischeif e're he dy'd.
Old Hydra, once at that prodigious height
As to endure no wrong, nor do no right,
Rais'd by fond errour of misguided zeal,
To trample on both King and Commonweal,
Breaths her last dying groans now; and we see
Has here found one to write her Elegie;
One, who in time, I hope, need not despair
To be Bard Laureat to a Quinborough Mayor,
Unless a dreadful Halter intervene,
Curing his lame toes of their gouty pain;
One, who, if he proceed will never fail
Clio to court instead of Abigail;
One, who not yet forgetting through his Nose
To cant out Treason in dull heavy prose,
Although condemned to be silent, will
Reiterate in Rithmes that Doctrine still;
Who ecchoes out ten Crowns with such alarms
As if he had both Indies in his arms.
Those torrid Regions, whose black, squallid face
Such never to b [...] valued gemms do grace;
Or bellowing to a crew of Crops, —even now,
To help the Lord against the mighty, go;
One, who might very well serve old Pope Sam.
To write Encomiums on each Sainted Name
In his fair rubrick of New Martyrs; than
'Twould be like Poet, like Historian.
Hee's the first Poet, and perhaps last too,
Which on Geneva's dunghill ever grew.
We've here a Doctor Poet, Doctor Knight,
A true Vespasian as e're saw the light:
Who thinks ten Growns smell well, though from the score
Of fluxing some old painted, pocky W—
The yielding Sisters turn not up their eyes,
They have forgot to send their old supplies
To Holders-forth; that golden age is gone,
And you are left in Hopkins Rithmes to mone
Or raile, like envious dogs, because the Moon
Above their reach doth undisturbed run.
Good Dr. Crackt-brains pray your anger spare,
Because no Pimples do fall to your share,
Except ith' Codpiece; if so, I assure you,
Get or the Doctor or the Knight to cure you.
That on your ribs and hatchet faces there
Can stick no flesh at all; you ever were
Legitimate Calves of Pharaoh's pincht-gut Kine,
Devouring all, and yet were ever lean;
Your tribe more cruelty once practized
Then ever Trajan, ever Decius did,
Yet you pretended to be Christians; right,
(Setting aside their ignorance oth' true light)
Both dare to write to say and think I shall,
They had more real Virtue then you all.
Trajan no Trajan was to his own Sect,
Fierce Dioclesian did his own protect;
You being Christians, Christians did undoe,
Yea beter Christians then the best of you.
And if that fatal Leprosie by Hell
Of never thinking never speaking well,
Was not entail'd upon you, you would own
The disproportion'd grace kind Heaven showrd down,
On them, who, though by you thrust out of all,
And kept out twice ten years, did never fall
So low as some of you; you preacht away
All Charity and good works, and now can say
Your wiser berd do sleight you; you may all
By your own Engine like Perillus fall.
As in the Babylonian Tyrants reign
Did thriving Daniel, ours return again
Plump cheekt, without Mechanick arts; they say
You pick Tobacco for a groat a day,
And look like Ghosts (for which no body's sorry)
Pickled a century in Purgatory,
Crying, when shall we see that happy day
That sweet Sack-possets frequent were as Whey;
A race far worse then Vipers, who do tare
Their Mother's guts, but to enjoy the air;
These would again their Native Land destroy,
To set up that blind cheating sensless toy
The Covenant, or their now-contemned cause.
Who study still to contradict the Lawes.
Base, cross-grain'd, sullen, peevish wretches, who
Though they're undone, strive others to undoe;
Yet they were still Jack-calls to find the end
Whereby a bitious spirits might ascend.
Nero did-fire his Rome, 'tis plainly seen
To satisfie his mirth, and not his spleen;
But these to gratifie their lasting hate
Did, and endeavour still t'in flame the State.
And Doctor Poet give me leave with you,
Ere we have done to speak a Word or two;
If you against your Brethren thus do write,
You'l spoil your Iter Boreale quite;
High blazing Satyrs do not please this age,
Droll now is thought the best Poetick rage.
It wont to be in Pulpits, now in Rithmes
And on the Stage; oh manners! oh the times!
However, if the
Poverty, [...] the Pox.
Welsh Gout show you tricks,And Charon waft you over muddy Styx,
(For your amphibious Doctor sent you coine
Against your journey to procure some wine)
That all may know you were a man of strife,
I'le write your Epitaph, and old Clearke your Life.
FINIS.